All in the Timing
by dress without sleeves
Summary: Do you believe in destiny? Do you believe that, no matter what happens, two people can belong to each other? Can Sydney and Vaughn find each other in a world where she isn't SD6?
1. Oh, Turkey!

**Author's Notes:** So, this is a little piece about what life might have been like if Sydney _hadn't_ joined the CIA—because you've never seen one of _these_ before. :-) Expect _very_ sporadic updates.

All in the Timing

_For Marshal_

_Who makes me laugh._

"No. Danny, absolutely not."

"_What_? Syd, why not? You love meatloaf!"

"Yes, I do; but not on Thanksgiving! You can't eat meatloaf on Thanksgiving, that's like … giving coal on Christmas!" Danny's mouth opens into a little 'o' before widening into a smile. He kisses her on the cheek; she swats his lips away. "Nuh-uh, buddy, we've talked about this. Not until you shave."

He smirks, rubbing his cheek against her hand. She pulls away, laughing delightedly; she lets him tug her into a hug and press little kisses onto her mouth. "My mother says that I look distinguished in a beard," he tells her haughtily.

"Your mother is blind in one eye," she returns, extricating herself from his grip. "Now, seriously. Go get the cereal. I'm buying the turkey. A big one."

He looks amused. "How big?"

"Big enough to dominate whatever Francie cooks up. I'm not letting her out-turkey me again this year."

A deep chuckle tumbles out of his throat. "Yes, well, last Thanksgiving _was_ pretty embarrassing. I don't think that the girls will ever be the same."

Sydney makes a face, giving him a gentle shove. "Just go, will you? Meet me at the checkout." She smiles as he moves away, her eyes softening at the corners. Sometimes he looks just a little like her father, when he does that; it used to bother her, but now she's sort of fond of the idea – she likes to think that Danny acts the way her father did around her mother. She has to believe that Jack Bristow was a normal, functioning human being once.

She walks with determination to the meat counter. It's high time that she shows Francie what's what when it comes to Thanksgiving dinner; after having the smaller turkey for six years in a row, she needs to step it up. Sydney's always been highly competitive, and this is no different. She glares down at the different meats, eyes roving over the uncooked meat.

"Too small," she declares after reaching the end. "Henry, do you have anything bigger? Anything at all?"

The young man behind the counter grins up at her, wiping a hand on his smock. "Sorry, Sydney. The biggest one is being held for a customer already."

Her eyebrows shoot upwards. "Francie?" She asks miserably. "She got here first again, didn't she?"

"Just by a few hours."

"This will be the seventh year that she beats me, Henry! The seventh! It's a total disgrace to my name."

She feels a soft tap on her shoulder. As she turns, her jaw drops to the floor and she pins her hands to her cheeks. "Oh, my God!" She shrieks. "That's – that's the biggest turkey I've ever seen!"

The man holding the meat in question grins a little. She feels her chest constrict oddly and she takes a closer look at him; he's handsome, there's no denying that. But there is something else. Something that makes her ears perk as he laughs and says, "Thanks. I was actually wondering if you wanted it. I don't really need such a big one…and anyway, it sounds like you're pretty desperate. _Seven years_?"

She tries to frown but can't fight the smile that lights up her features. "You'd really be willing to sell it to me?" She asks, breathless. "You don't know what this means – "

"I won't sell it," he interrupts. "I was thinking more along the lines of _giving_ it to you."

She pauses. "What? Oh, no, don't be silly. Whatever you've paid for it – "

"Look, ma'am, I really don't want this turkey. I only bought it because my best friend, well, he really wanted a large turkey and I thought that if I brought him this, he'd stop asking. But of course now I feel guilty, what with this meanly humungous turkey that will take days to cook, and I just want to be rid of it before he sees it – or me – and I lose my life."

Sydney smiles again, a little giggle escaping her mouth. "Well…if it will save your life," she says, pretending to deliberate. "I suppose I might be able to help you out."

"My guardian angel," he sighs in relief.

"I was about to say the same thing," she tells him. She holds out her arms and he begins to unload the massive package. Her hands brush his fingertips and a jolt surges up her arm. She jumps a little, surprised. He doesn't look at her, and she knows somehow that he felt it too.

_This is ridiculous, Sydney,_ she tells herself, and then thinks, _Where is Danny? If Danny were here this wouldn't be happening._

He extricates himself from the meat. The full weight is suddenly in her arms and she hefts it carefully just as her cell phone rings. "Damnit!" She swears, looking longingly at her purse. She balances the turkey in her left hand, reaching slowly with her right to grab at the machine. _Will _is sprawled lazily across the screen. "Will?" She asks, "Hello?"

She tries to walk towards her cart and suddenly she is falling, the turkey rolling into the air and her arms flailing outward. She lands with a _thud_ on the tiled floor; she wonders if her turkey has retained as much damage as her ankle, which numbs and burns alternately.

She lifts her head from its position on her arm and realizes with horror that her turkey has landed on top of its previous owner and knocked him to the floor. "Oh, my _God!_ I am so sorry!" She scrambles to her feet, ignoring the angry shouts of her ankle, and hobbles over to him. "Are you all right?"

For a moment, he doesn't answer. She can't see his face, but suddenly she can sense him smile. Sure enough, his stomach soon begins to vibrate and she hears the low laughter. She thinks that it's an oddly intimate laugh; an ounce of pleasure blossoms in her stomach. She wants to laugh with him. "That turkey is out for blood," she teases, hefting the thing off of his face.

"I guess it's angry that I gave it away," he returns easily, a wide grin across his cheeks. "Or there's always the other option."

She cocks her head curiously, dumping her prize into her cart and gently wheeling her ankle around its axis. "And what's that?"

"The turkey doesn't want to go home with you. It's frightened of your friend's larger, meaner turkey."

Sydney giggles, adjusting her purse on her shoulder. "I'll bet that's it," she agrees, and winces as she feels a pinch. The man's face falls and instantly he's on his knees in front of her.

"Did you twist it?" He asks, his tone suddenly business-like.

She arches an eyebrow. "A little, but I'm fine."

He shakes his head, a small smile on his lips. "How about you let me decide that?" He asks. "I'm sort of a doctor."

"_Sort of_?" She asks. "_That's _comforting."

He ignores her, instead pressing his fingers gently to her skin. It hurts; she avoids wincing because the pressure of his skin on hers is oddly exciting and makes her short of breath. She stays frozen for a minute or two before he declares, "Well, I think you'll live, Miss…?"

"Bristow," she supplies, and then instantly wonders why she didn't give her married name. "Sydney."

"Sydney Bristow," he says, and the name rolls off his tongue with an ease that surprises her. "Well, it was nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy your turkey … and good luck. Oh – and put ice on your ankle, or it'll be the size of your head by tomorrow morning."

She smiles at him, and he smiles back, and she has the weirdest sense of déjà vu. "Sure," she says dazedly, "Thanks."

He turns, and makes it halfway down the isle before she calls out, "Wait! What's your name, anyway?"

He stops, and turns to face her. For a second, when he looks at her, she can't breathe; the pain in her ankle disappears; she can't think or move or speak; Sydney wants to simply stand there, in the grocery store, forever, with his eyes on hers so that she feels like she's the most radiant, important thing that's ever crossed his path.

_Stop it_, she orders mentally, shaking her head to free the sensation. _Stop it right now._ She reaches into her purse, fingering her cell phone. _Think about Danny._

"Vaughn," he answers with a cheeky little smile that almost makes her heart stop. "Michael Vaughn."


	2. Good Looking Strangers

**Author's Notes:** I felt like it.

All in the Timing

_For Weiss_

_Who is me, only cooler._

**Chapter Two: Good Looking Strangers**

It is raining.

Sydney sits at the pier, legs curled beneath the bench. Her Starbucks coffee is too hot; it burns her fingers as she clutches the large mug between her palms. She's been here for an hour, allowing the water to soak her hair. But the house was too empty – Danny has another conference in Singapore and both Laura and Isabel are at Francie's. There was such a heavy silence and it hurts her to know that she is alone.

It is September the twenty-fifth, the day of her mother's accident, and that is never a good day.

Her phone rings. She listens to the sound before languidly reaching for her purse. "Hello?" She drawls, taking a sip of drink and wincing as it burns her throat.

"Syd? It's Danny."

His voice is scratchy from distance and she presses her ear closer to the sound. "Hi. How's your conference?" Her voice is even but she is desperate for him; she wants to hear his laugh and feel his fingers in her palm.

"Good. Boring. Listen, I don't have much time, but I wanted to check in. I know that this week – particularly today – is always hard for you. How are you holding up?"

_I'm terrible,_ she almost says. _I miss her so much that I can't even see straight. It hurts that I can't run to Dad and cry and hear him tell me that it will be all right. It hurts to know that I can't run to Dad for anything. It hurts to have had something so sweet and lost it without even getting the chance to say goodbye._

"I'll be fine. I'm just tinkering at home. Grading papers." She's not sure why she lied to him, except that it pricks at her conscience; guilt is better than despair, she's decided, and little white lies won't make any difference.

When he speaks, his voice is sympathetic. "All right," he says, "Well, listen, call me if you need anything, okay? My phone is on. I love you."

"You too," she answers, but she's already pulling the phone from her ear and snapping it shut. She likes the emptiness of the pier; unlike the house, where every room seems heavy with its silence she feels free here, like she belongs on this bridge above the Pacific, listening to the empty Ferris wheel spin and spin and spin.

She has an unexplainable urge to hurl something into the ocean, for no other reason than it might be satisfying. _I just threw that into the Pacific,_ she would say afterwards, and it would be hilarious although Sydney knows, really, that it's not. But sometimes it's easier to laugh than to cry – she has no one to talk to, and maybe a little laughter would do her good.

"Sydney Bristow, right?"

She turns, sitting up straighter at the voice. She's surprised to realize that she recognizes the sound, although she's only heard it once before. "Michael Vaughn," she replies, a smile rounding her cheeks. "What a surprise."

He grins crookedly, taking a seat beside her and turning his eyes to the ocean. "Nice day for the view," he observes, stretching his arm so that his umbrella covers both their heads. She manages a weak laugh, brushing her hand over her eyes to hide whatever tears might escape. He doesn't say anything for a moment, and then, "You know, when I was six, this guy showed up at my doorstep. He was wearing a suit – all black and shiny; he was a really sharp looking guy. I thought he was the coolest thing I had ever seen; especially when I noticed that he was carrying a gun beneath his jacket. But as soon as he knocked on our door, my mother, she just went crazy. Crying, screaming, and tugging at her hair. It was terrifying."

Sydney turns, studying his face. She doesn't find it strange that he is telling her this; it seems oddly fitting that he should share this part of him. He keeps his gaze out on the harbor. "But that man just walked in and wrapped his arms around her. He looked very sad. I didn't know what was going on. I didn't know anything. I just sat in the corner, too terrified to move. I wanted to ask someone what was going on, but I was too scared to know the answer."

He falls silent and she reaches for his hand. Their fingers curl on instinct and she wonders briefly if this contact isn't somehow some sort of betrayal. _I hold hands with Will all the time,_ she argues to herself, but knows that this is an entirely different interaction. She wishes she could place just how. "What had happened?" She prompted, after a few minutes of quiet.

Vaughn – she just can't call him Michael, even in her head – turns then, his eyes latching hers and not letting go. "It was my father," he muttered. "He was an agent in the CIA … killed in action. I don't know how; I don't even know where." He leans in. "Sometimes I still miss him so much that I come out here, by myself, in the rain, and wait for a good-looking stranger – possibly one with an affinity for large turkeys – to come talk to me."

A strange blend of sadness and humor swells in her belly; she's giggling even as the tears trip over her eyelashes. "Well, I've done that once or twice," she agrees before adding, "Although I don't know anyone good-looking that's sold me a turkey recently."

He pulls his umbrella from over her head and lets her sit in the rain for a few seconds before covering her again. "Careful what you say about the man holding your umbrella," he advises cheerfully.

She smiles at him, sitting back against the bench and looking out at the grey sky. "It was my mother," she says, not sure why she's telling him this when she can't even talk about it with Danny. "She died in a car accident. A postal worker had fallen asleep at the wheel and he ran her and my father off of the road." She waits a beat before admitting, so quietly that even _she_ barely knows what she's saying, "My father lived. I wish it had been her."

And then the tears come, so hot and fast that she can't even hope to stop them. "And I don't know why I'm telling you this when I barely know you, when I can't even talk about it with my _husband_ but sometimes I just miss her so badly that everything else is unimportant. I was shopping the other day and I thought – I thought that I _saw_ her. She had different hair, though, long and blonde but I could swear that she was identical and I almost – I almost lost it right there, in the cereal isle, in front of my daughter Isabel."

He smiles, giving her hand a little squeeze. "I like the name Isabel," he murmurs. "If I ever had a daughter, that's what I would have named her."

She looks at him through her tears. "I think you've got time left for that," she says, smiling. "You can't be older than I am."

He shakes his head, shrugging. "I haven't found the right woman yet," he declares. "I thought I had for a while. Her name was Lauren. But it didn't…" He looks away, his face suddenly dipping into shadow. "It didn't work out," he finishes, chin set.

Sydney thinks she's never seen anything more disturbing in her life than a frown on Vaughn's face. So she says, "Well, if you want to talk about it, this seems like an appropriate time."

And he looks at her and she knows that he wants to, very badly, but for some reason he will hold back. "I should go," he says instead, and then reaches into his pocket. He scribbles something onto the piece of paper that he extracted and places it in her hand. "If you ever need anything … well, you have my number, Sydney."

She can't help smiling. "I don't even know you," she laughs, wiping at her cheeks, "But you've been so wonderful. Thank you."

He shakes his head. "Don't think anything of it," he warns lightly. "I'm just a man with simple tastes: overly fat turkeys and crying women."

Sydney watches him walk away, hands shoved into his pockets, and realizes that he's left her his umbrella. She's not too disturbed to realize, as she glances down at the sheet in her hand, that she already has his number memorized.


	3. Not Alone, Not Really

**Author's Notes:** Two updates in the same month! What is this nonsense?

All in the Timing

_For Will_

_The nicest boy in the world_

**Chapter Three: Not Alone, Not Really**

Dressed to kill and sitting alone at the fanciest restaurant in Washington, she stirs her warm alcohol with her index finger, watching her nail polish erode in the wineglass. Faint purple chips float across the deep maroon surface. Quietly listening to the various couples around her laughing and socializing, Sydney Hecht does not know if she has ever been so angry.

_It's not his fault._ Sydney knew when she married Danny that this would happen; he was a doctor, and sometimes he would have to put the life of a child over dinner with his wife. Usually Sydney tells herself not to let it faze her; sometimes she even succeeds.

But not tonight.

She tips back a gulp of wine; the sweet and bitter liquid smolders in her mouth, washing over tongue and staining her teeth. She grips the fragile glass stem of her cup with more force than necessary, catching her perfect reflection in its mirror. Diamonds dangle from each ear, rouge cascading softly from both cheeks. She'd curled her hair especially for the occasion, the way her mother had taught her to do all those years ago, and she thinks that she looks a bit like her mother: dazzling. Dazzling.

Sydney Hecht commands the space around her, skin reflecting the soft glow of candles, glorious and defeated.

She reaches a hand into her purse, diving into its contents in search of her cell phone. There is already a text message splayed across the screen: _I'm so sorry, darling. I'll make it up to you somehow. Love, Danny._

Sydney viciously slashes the delete button, wiping away his apology with as much guilt as sullen antagonism. "You knew this would happen when you married him," she tells herself aloud. "Don't be so selfish."

Francie's number will forever be ingrained in her memory; she dials without thinking. Three rings. Then, "Yel-low?"

"Francie, it's me." Her voice catches and breaks, but she swallows her tears with another swig of wine. "Can you pick me up?"

There's crackling on the other end; she waits a beat before Francie answers, "Sure thing, doll. Charlie can hold down the fort for a few minutes. Where are you?"

She gives the address, cheeks flaming as she snaps her phone shut. She wants to somehow explain the situation to the people around her, to assure them that she's not alone, not really, she's just . . .

Sydney straightens. Loneliness is a feeling that she's far too familiar with; her whole childhood was spent in the indifferent arms of babysitters and nannies. Her father shipped her to boarding school as soon as she turned fourteen.

For safety, he'd said, but she didn't know from what.

In recent years that quiet despair of solitude had slipped away from her; but she'd never quite forgotten the bitter aftertaste, and she won't let it conquer her now.

"Are you stalking me?"

Sydney turns, eyebrows raised at the soft, laughing voice. Then she allows a smile to brighten her features, lips tipping upwards until her whole face seemed lit. "I should be asking _you_ that question," she tells Michael Vaughn, standing to embrace him. "What are you doing here?"

His eyes shift over her shoulder, and the smile he plasters above his chin doesn't meet his eyes. "Well, I _was _meeting friends, but they're stuck in traffic over on 95. What about you? What brings a gorgeous woman to a restaurant like this all alone?"

She felt her smile slip. "My husband," she told him, gesturing helplessly at the table. "It's our anniversary, we were going to . . . but something came up, some sort of emergency at the hospital, and . . ." she trails off with a shrug. "Now I'm just waiting for my ride."

There is no discomfort when he reaches for her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze; instead she draws comfort from the sympathetic smile and kind eyes. "Where do you want to go?"

Sydney cocks her head to the side, hair tumbling off of her shoulder. She can't help but notice how his eyes follow its movement, fascinated by each twitch and turn. It's been so long since anyone other than Danny observed these little things about her, things that she'd almost forgotten used to lure in men like bees to honey.

Knowing it's dangerous, knowing it's a mistake, Sydney grabs her purse off of the table and slings it onto a shoulder. "To the train station," she decides firmly. "I just need to sit for a while."

---

He doesn't ask questions, and for that Sydney's grateful. She couldn't explain her love for this place even if he pressed; she's fascinated by the people that pass by, ordinary humans going about their ordinary business. She wonders about them—about their lives, and their problems, and their joys.

It's a pleasant alternative to wondering about her own.

Sydney's head rests comfortably on Vaughn's chest; she can hear his steady heartbeat and his warm hand against her skin sends tingles along her arm. "I'm sorry," she croaks finally. "It seems like every time we meet I'm in some sort of emotional crisis."

She can feel him shake his head. "Don't be sorry," he orders sincerely, kindly, "I wish that I . . . I wish that more people were as in-touch with what they feel. You can't ever push it away, Sydney, or deny yourself the right to be angry, or sad. It just . . . it just makes it worse."

"Speaking from experience?"

He doesn't respond. Another question she's sure she'll never know the answer to.

But these dead-ends concerning his life don't bother her as they should; she burns with curiosity whenever Danny keeps something from her, but Vaughn's silences are a mystery that fit him and she feels no need to discover the secrets inside them. Maybe she's afraid to know.

He lifts her up gently until she's in seated position, and takes her face in his hands. "Sydney," he begins, "I think that maybe—"

But before he can complete his sentence, before she even knows what she's doing, Sydney has launched herself at him, mouth on his, pressing her chest against him as if she wanted to climb inside. And maybe she does.

Her head says: _you are cheating on your husband._

Everything else screams: _who cares_.

He pushes her away with reluctant force. "Sydney," he starts again, "You're beautiful and smart and perfect, but . . . you don't want to get involved with me. Please, trust me. You have a good life. I don't want ruin it."

"You won't," she tells him fiercely. "I do. I've been ruining my own life since I was old enough to know how, Vaughn. For the first time . . . " she trails off. "For the first time, I don't feel _any_ hesitance. I _know_ this is wrong, being with you when Danny . . ." she looks away, chewing on the corner of her lip. "But I don't _care_. For once, I—"

He cups her face in his hands and tilts her head until their eyes are met. "For once, you . . .?"

"For once, I want to do something for _me_."

And so she kisses him again, kisses him so hard that her mouth may bruise, but he's kissing her back and leading her to the car and it's better than being alone.

---

Where Danny is eager, Vaughn is tender; where Danny is kind, Vaughn is sweet; where Danny is upbeat, Vaughn is content to take his sweet time.

She knows nothing about this man; but lying next to him, sweating beneath tangled sheets, she thinks that she knows just about enough.


	4. The Turkey that Became the Affair

**Author's Notes:** Ummmm…

All in the Timing

_for my bio grade_

_which went down a full 5 points._

**Chapter Four: When the Turkey became the Affair**

Danny doesn't get home that night, and in a sick way she is grateful. She slinks back into her own house, avoiding eye contact with the picture-lined walls and refrigerator smothered in magnets. She leaves the lights off, sitting on the living room couch and basking in the darkness, comforted by the blanket of secrecy it covers her in.

It takes her two Aimee Mann songs to work up the courage to call Francie and apologize, and another six to answer to turn on a light. She waits in utter silence until she hears Danny's engine in the driveway—instantly her whole body stiffens and her throat constricts. She doesn't know how she's supposed to look at him, embrace him, _kiss_ him when all she can taste is Vaughn, when all she can see are their tangled limbs and his eyes when he called her perfect.

She absently flicks on a light, listening to his boots on the stoop. "Syd?"

She stands as some internal switch shifts on. She takes his outstretched hand, feeling as if she is in some sort of daze, as if she isn't in control of her own body. "Danny. How'd the surgery go?"

He pulls her to him, mumbling, "Never mind that, sweetheart. I am so _sorry_ I missed our anniversary, I am so sorry . . . I'll make it up to you. Somehow. I will."

She shakes her head, privately thinking that he still smells of blood. "Don't apologize. I know you couldn't help it." She touches his cheek and lets him kiss her mouth and even though her whole body reacts violently, rejecting these old and yet somehow still foreign lips, she doesn't let it show and instead kisses back with such guilty fervor that it surprises him.

"What did you do with your time without the girls?" He asks tenderly, leading her back towards the couch. "Francie is keeping them for the night, I take it?"

She nods, curling into him, needing his touch as if it will somehow erase the scent and feel of another man from her skin. "Yes. I went . . . I went to the train station. You know how I like to sit there sometimes."

He smiles, curling his fingers into hers. "How did I get so lucky?" He murmurs into her hair. "Any other woman would have run off with another man by now."

Sydney has to force herself not to stiffen, has to focus on keeping her muscles loose and relaxed. She answers, "You are a good man, Danny," because she can't bear to lie to him so directly.

His words babble over her, his voice low and melodic as he speaks. Sydney closes her eyes and squeezes his hands, half-hoping that if she is good enough, loving enough, devoted enough from now on she can erase what she did. But even as she prays she knows that can never happen; isn't entirely sure she really wants it to.

She can hear Vaughn's words in her head—_Sydney you are smart and beautiful and perfect_—and tries to retrace her steps over the passed two months, tries to understand when the funny man with the big turkey became an _affair_.

The thing is, she loves Danny. She loves him dearly, for his compassion and his kindness and his intelligence. And yet . . .

In college, she took a remedial biology course to refresh her memory. In enzymes, there is an active site and a substrate and they recognize each other by their shape and size. There is only one substrate for every active site. They belong to one another. One cannot perform its function without the other.

Something in Sydney fits something in Vaughn. She can't quite explain why, or how, or what. But she feels more completed with him than she has ever felt with Danny. Or anyone else.

It does not excuse her actions. She knows this.

Danny is murmuring, "Do you want to go upstairs?"

Her body is tired, her nerves frayed. But Danny is her husband, and she made a promise to love and cherish him. So although she can still feel Vaughn's teeth on her neck, she smiles and says yes.

---

"Sydney."

She turns quickly, a little smile taking over her mouth before she can swallow it. "Vaughn. What are you going here? I thought you said you'd be on business for a few days."

He grins, leaning against the door frame of her office. She works in advertising—knowing how to dress and arrange a model to make the audience believe as the company wants them to has been a knack she'd realized her sophomore year in college. Wigs and costumes and roles come naturally, like some internal recognition. "I got back early."

He steps inside, hands deep in his pockets. "Listen. I wanted to ask you something."

She cocks her head, encouraging him with a little smile but not stepping closer. Distance seems to be a key factor with them—and contact at all and one or both loses control. She opens her mouth to ask him what's on his mind when Danny appears behind him, bearing flowers and a big smile.

"Excuse me," he mumbles politely to Vaughn, placing the vase on her desk and his mouth on her cheek. "Hello, sweetheart. Thought I'd drop in for a couple minutes during lunch." He looks over his shoulder. "Is he one of your models?"

Vaughn's expression changes smoothly and without blinking he extends a hand. "Hello. Charlie Davis. Your wife's been helping me with an add I've been working on."

Danny smiles. "Wonderful woman, Mrs. Hecht."

"Wonderful," Vaughn echoes, his voice a perfect pitch of disinterest and boredom she is so used to from the men in her ads.

She stares at him in half-amazement and then shakes her head, brushing away questions and speculation that has no place in their relationship. She can feel her instincts kicking in again, the same dreamy feeling she'd had the week before, on her anniversary when her body seemed to know what it was doing without her help. "The flowers are beautiful," she murmurs. "But I was just about to get back to work. How about dinner tonight? I'll call a sitter."

Danny smiles, kissing her once more quickly before shaking Vaughn's hand again and exiting.

No one speaks.

"What did you want to ask?" She ventures finally, dropping into her desk chair and sinking her head into her hands.

Vaughn is quiet. Then, "It's not important."

She looks up at him, at his back as he retreats, and can feel something in her start to tick. She doesn't want to hurt anybody but she is hurting _everybody_, herself and Danny and Vaughn.

She only knows one person who knows what's that like, to be a disappointment to your family and to yourself, and so she calls him before she can think to regret it.

Jack Bristow lets his phone ring three times before he answers.

"Sydney?"


End file.
